The Airport
The airport was almost deserted, and the chap checking boarding cards was bored - no one else in sight at all. Round the corner, at the security section, another chap was waiting to do something useful (by which I mean hand me a tray and point out the blindingly obvious route I had to take, through the 'door frame' sensor to the other side of the x-ray machine, to reclaim my bag and tray). He was rocking on his feet, but managed to make eye contact with me over the completely pointless 'snake'. I was forced to walk around the course despite there being not another soul in the place! I pointed at the boa constrictor with a quizzical expression and the bloke just shrugged. After I'd snaked towards him and arrived, he handed me a tray and pointed out the blindingly obvious route through the 'door frame' sensor, to the other side of the x-ray machine, to reclaim my bag and tray.
After ten paces, and holding my reclaimed bag, I was stopped by two blokes who were sitting behind a counter, for a passport check. I was asked where I was going and the correct response was of course: "Through there (with a helpful pointing finger) to whichever gate number comes up on the screen, so I can get on an aeroplane." I actually said: "Malaga", considering it less contentious, and I was quite sure that the bored blokes would not appreciate sarcasm. After being allowed on my way, I bought a newspaper (the only thing that WH Smith cannot mark-up-to-fuck and rip off customers on). I avoided an impulse buy after seeing a plug adaptor for £7.99, and instead adopted the rational approach of considering the retailer a corporate cunt based on the very same adaptors being available for £1 or 99p at any local store. I recalled seeing just a week beforehand a double pack for a pound that included two adaptors, one for Europe and one for North America! After a ten-minute wait, at 10.20am, 'Gate 9' appeared on the screen and two minutes later I found myself 8th in the queue. While waiting, I wondered why I'd been stopped and asked where I was going to; the Malaga flight seemed to account for 98% of the people in the terminal, so I was unlikely to have turned round and said "Botswana" or anywhere that wasn't a three-syllable Spanish city starting with 'M' and ending in 'A', with a functioning airport.
Boarding
Designated seating is preferable to the Ryanair method of boarding, which involves a more time consuming mad scramble and much jostling. As a result, I witnessed no passengers rugby tackling other competitors in the race for seats that were 'preferred' (eg. over the wings, at the front, or in clusters to accommodate extended families. Instead of the madness that occurs when people try to find space on blue and yellow plastic seats ( Ryanair ) there was order as passengers took up their seats in the grey and red seats. I effortlessly boarded via the rear door, found my seat and sat down after putting my bag and coat in the overhead compartment. It was so very easy, and I read my newspaper as others boarded, including two elderly passengers who took up their positions next to me. In fact, 80% of the passengers seemed to be retired / old; these two were in their seventies.
The background music that came on was awful; typical 'lift' music that certainly doesn't lift you. Under the Boardwalk started the playlist off, and Mr & Mrs Old proceeded to join in, but only with the three words in the song title. Over and over they sang it; well, she warbled and he spoke it like he was instructing a dog with a gruff, deep voice - his voice, not the dog's. I'd never before realised how many times the three words featured in the song. I endured the performances and the enthusiasm [thank God it wasn't She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain] of the Oldies. I was never more pleased with an interuption by the tannoy. The welcome relief was the result of the cabin crew needing to say something pointless and mind-numbing.
The young woman in charge was enthusiastic and clearly loved her job. Her effervescence transferred itself to her mouth which kept running ahead of her, adding words or making them up in the rush to create sounds of positivity, helpfulness, glee and joie-de-fucking-something! [No, she wasn't French]
"If anyone has brought any electronical items on to the flight, can they make sure they're switched off." I wondered on two counts. First, there were two references to "they" within the sentence, and only the items themselves could be linked grammatically. On this basis, she was assuming that all items were able able to switch themselves off. Second, what could possibly count as electronical ? I came up with no answer to this.
The safety announcement was refreshingly non-Irish. The pre-recorded advice on what to do in an emergency was delivered not by a softly spoken Irishwoman, but given in a forthright manner by an English bloke, and my interest was held.
The overly keen leader of the cabin crew had her hair in a bun, pulled as tight as the wires holding up a suspension bridge. It must have hurt, but she soldiered on; perhaps she wasn't 22 years old, but 42 and was benefiting from a home-made facelift (?) I saw her put some crutches in the overhead storage section, but a few rows back from where the man who needed them was sitting. He'd got on the plane okay, but now he was fucked because he'd not be leaving in a hurry, and the crutches were stowed to cause complete inconvenience in an emergency, I thought.
Ready For Take Off
After learning how not to die in any other way than through a broken neck after adopting the brace position (following compliance with the internationally accepted suicide signal of "brace, brace") I was pleased to be at the end of the runway, ready for take off. Three minutes later, nothing had changed - not even the illumination on the dial in front of the pilot which indicated the front door was open.
Unlike the approach to be adopted by any owner of a Renault car, especially the old Laguna (where drivers have to ignore any fucking sensor or flashing light) the Jet2.com policy is rather more onerous and strictly enforced. The pilot announced we'd have to return to the terminal in case the front door was not properly closed or closable. Miss Effervescent chipped in, and told us that back inside the departure lounge, we would have to wait while preparations were made, and that staff "will see to all your needs that you do have". [Not, then, the ones that we don't have?]
Plane Swap
After some huffing, puffing and waiting, and the removal of the threat to make us all disembark for the joys of the terminal building, we learnt via Miss Keenness herself how we'd be ferried by bus to another plane. Being almost last on to the second of the buses parked alongside the plane, I was well positioned when we paulled alongside the new plane. I was second on board via the rear steps and the 'deja vu' experience was underway. As before, I sat with my paper. Low and behold, Mr and Mrs Old came along in due course, and all around I heard dozens of people chuckling and relaying 'deja vu' comments.
Anyone would have thought the inconvenience was a major issue, calling for a 'Dunkirk' spirit. Anyway, we all settled in, and the music started. Under the Boardwalk came on. I was grief-stricken. Mrs and Mrs Goldfish sitting next to me had clearly no recollection at all of their earlier efforts, and they proceeded to join in again, singing along with the three words of the title - again, and again and again. Mrs Old was displaying much glee, joviality and whoop-de-fucking-do with the whole experience, and I suspect she'd show the same misplaced joy if she were on a plane to Switzerland, heading for Dignitas!
The next song was by Elvis - and never did a song have more appropriate lyrics, and arrive at such a timely juncture:
A little less conversation, a little more action please
All this aggravation ain't satisfaction in me
A little more bite and a little less bark
A little less fight and a little more spark
There was certainly a shortage of satisfaction, a need for action, less conversation and input from passengers and staff alike, and I'd have appreciated some progress. The next track took the biscuit. Come Fly With Me was quite simply a piss take, leading me to question my sanity. I waited in the excessive heat and tried to keep hold of my senses. Then, Miss Eagerness piped up with another announcement, telling us all that we'd again have to go through the safety routine. She then said:
"In two or three moments we should hopefully be under our way." I considered what three aviation moments equated to in real time, as well as trying to understand why she felt the need to add "our" into the perfectly acceptable word "underway". [Three aviation moments is in fact 4 minutes and 25 seconds]
Taking Off and Flying
To the granite tones of a northern woman directly behind me, the plane made its way to the runway. She talked and talked and talked. Then she talked some more, before continuing to talk. The deep voice and seriously strong accent combined to annoy the fuck out of me, and that's without even mentioning the content (shit) of the verbal assault. (Her monologue lasted until the Bay of Biscay.) As we were rising, Miss Chomping-at-the-bit was on the tannoy again:
"In a few short moments time [and I tried to convert short moments into some sense of real time] the seatbelt signs will be turned off." As the plane continued its ascent, Miss Chatterbox rattled on over the roaring engines to enlighten me on the opportunities that would shortly present themselves, including one to buy perfumes. Her timing was absolutely wonderful, as I'd that very moment decided that having just passed 7000ft, and sporting facial hair, my raging thirst was not of prime importance at all, and that despite the time already spent on two planes without a swig of anything, I needed to purchase urgently some Paco Rabanne to take with me to Spain! I also needed to know the various quantities in which other liquids were available - not liquids to drink, mind you! I make no apologies for this bumper (1000ml) portion of sarcasm.
For those of you unaware of the armrest deficiency syndrome (ADS) that prevails on Jet2.com aircraft, I'll explain. For some strange reason, the people in charge made a decision to cut back on the size of armrests and opted for "mini-armrests" instead of ordinary ones. They are approximately 7.5 inches long and less than 2 inches wide. This means they are useless except for people who have had amputations to both arms, from somewhere between the wrists and the elbows. However, anyone 'qualifying' on this criterion would fail to comply with essential requirements - ie. being able to fasten the seat belt!
Liquid
As soon as the plane began to level out, the tannoy came alive yet again, and Miss Bubbly told us how we could all enjoy some champagne; a minute later a short chap walked down the aisle holding a tray full of bottles and glasses. I saw no takers for a drink. Why Jet2.com thought we'd want to spend £30 on champagne was a mystery to me. I looked at the laminated menu to see what might be worth ordering; although I was thirsty, I was not desperate enough to spend £4 on one small can (330ml) of Magners cider. Instead, I wasted £1.80 on water, although the quantity was not specified. Eau de cuntin' toilette is sold in specified quatities, but eau de fuckin' ordinary gets no such detail. I ignored food, and noted the ghastly heading, which said:
"Sandwiches and Hot Eats"
I was handed the stumpiest bottle of water (from Harrogate!) that I could have imagined; 330ml. I drank the liquid from the stumpy bottle and tried unsuccessfully (because of severe ADS) to rest my right arm on the stumpy arm rest.
The Descent
I resisted the further touting of Jet2.com staff, and did not buy any fragrances, despite supposed 'savings' of 20%. By the end of the flight I was pleased to be on my way. Before landing, Miss Gushing was able to give one more burst of enthusiasm over the tannoy, and she told those who were on packages with Jet2.com Holidays that:
"Your holiday reps will be awaiting to see you."
Bless her; to the end, she gabbled shite. Still, despite all of this, everything was much better than Ryanair .
...
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